The King's Commissar Read online

  'Your horse,' he said. 'I have borrowed it.' He waited for me to say when, or how, or why, or for what? I did not do so and he was therefore obliged to speak. 'To send a man to Ekaterinburg. They will be anxious to learn of this departure.'

  'It's a long ride,' I said. And so it was - close to four hundred miles!

  'He will go by train from Tyumen,' Ruzsky said, smiling. 'As you will.'

  'Very well,' I said, as calmly as I could. But inside I was fuming, knowing what the creature intended. When I put the Imperial Family on the train at Tyumen and started for Moscow, the train would have to pass through Ekaterinburg. Yankel Sverdlov had warned me of the likely conduct of the Soviet leadership in the city and Ruzsky, having underlined the warning, was clearly intent upon mischief.

  This matter now required much careful thought, but did not get it at that time, for I became too busy. The excellent Koznov and his men were doing their best, but to load and organize a substantial convoy of horse-drawn koshevas is no light matter, and there was some confusion. It was hard work, bringing order to bear, but gradually it came about, and soon after three o'clock in the morning the baggage was all loaded and I was able to go back indoors to summon the family. They awaited me in the hall, the ex-Tsarina and Marie wrapped in furs, and Nicholas between them, in a top coat that came down no further than mid-thigh.

  Seeing that the time for departure had come, they exchanged kisses and goodbyes with those who were to stay behind, and followed me outside into the cold, blowing snow. I saw no tears.

  'Commissar!' A woman's voice and I turned. 'I will ride with my husband.' #

  I saluted the former empress. 'I regret that that is not possible. I must myself accompany him. I have arranged that you occupy a kosheva with your daughter.'

  She was disposed to argue, but Marie intervened. 'Come, Mama, the arrangements are already made. The commissar can hardly leave Father alone!'

  She was German, the Empress, and I saw signs of German truculence then in her face, but such was her daughter's persuasiveness that she gave way quite easily and took her seat as I guided her.

  We were ready to go. Yet the cold was bitter, and Nicholas Romanov wore only that light coat. I sent for another.

  He said, 'It's what I wear. I'm all right.'

  I said it was out of the question. I had been sent to bring him alive from Tobolsk. He gave a quiet chuckle and said he was glad to hear it.

  And so, at four o'clock, after a few last frustrating delays as a harness broke and sled runners collided and became locked, we were off on the hundred and thirty miles to Tyumen and the train. We went fast; there had never been time for delay and now, with Ruzsky's messenger ahead of us and bound for Ekaterinburg with his warning, there was less than ever.

  The falling snow, this late in the year, was set, and the snow on the ground became slushy during the day; a thaw was upon us, and the journey became accordingly harder. I will not attempt to describe it, save to say that no time was wasted, that changes of horses were waiting for us as I had arranged, and that the entire affair took almost exactly twenty-four hours.

  During that time I had little conversation with Nicholas. It may seem strange that two men thrust together at close quarters in enforced companionship should exchange no more than a few words occasionally, but so it was. The back of a running sleigh is no place for idle pleasantries. Inevitably, though, there were moments when we talked, as when Nicholas asked: 'What is the true purpose in moving me?'

  It seemed a good moment to ask him about the Zaharoff document.

  He smiled. 'My signature still seems in demand. It was wanted at Brest-Litovsk, you know, in March. Having given so much away to the Germans, they wanted my imprimatur upon it. Perhaps to blame me later. I refused, of course.' He glanced across at me. 'This document of yours needs more consideration. You will give me a few hours?'

  I nodded. 'Of course.'

  So at last we came to Tyumen. Weariness lay heavy upon every man and beast in the sled convoy, but there was no sickness and no injury.

  I was naturally exceedingly anxious to know if the instructions I had left with the railway authorities had been carried out, and therefore drove direct to the station to find with satisfaction that they had been obeyed to the letter. The train I had demanded upon Sverdlov's orders had not only been marshalled, but waited in a siding with a full head of steam. Quickly I got the Romanovs aboard. Then I left Koznov superintending the loading of their possessions into two baggage cars while I went to speak to the station controller to inform him that departure of the train must be delayed until I had received new instructions from Moscow. I went from there immediately to the telegraph office, taking with me one of Koznov's men who, luckily for me, could operate a telegraph. Luckily because I disliked the look of the operator: a shifty, small fellow with a cast in his eye and a furtive air. I sent him from the room and composed my message to Sverdlov.

  It was lengthy, for there was much to say. I had to report not only our arrival, but that the Ekaterinburg Soviet would soon be aware of the removal of the ex-Tsar from Tobolsk and might well take action. I badly needed advice now. And support, too, if Sverdlov could provide any.

  I spent most of the day and half the night awaiting his answer, and when it came it was in many ways most dispiriting. Sverdlov required me to bring my charges to Moscow right enough, as I had expected. It was clear, though, that Moscow's writ did not run in Ekaterinburg, for he instructed me to make a long and roundabout journey in order to avoid that city. To reach Moscow meant travelling west, but since the rail line west went through Ekaterinburg, I was therefore to begin by heading east out of Tyumen, in the direction of Omsk. From Omsk ran a great loop of the Trans-Siberian which passed far to the south of Ekaterinburg as it headed for Moscow and the West.

  In the warmth of the telegraph room I sat and smoked and considered this. To Sverdlov, in his Moscow office, it would make good sense. Danger came from the men of Ekaterinburg; therefore avoid the city. But how was I to do so when the man Ruzsky, who could no doubt tell east from west, would be with us on the train?

  Kill him? I thought of it and thought hard, and not a day now passes but I wish with all my heart it had been done; but it was impossible then, in that little telegraph office, to know anything of what was to come. My central thought then was the avoidance of bloodshed. If Ruzsky died, I thought, it would not end there: the man was of too much consequence.

  I therefore conceived a stratagem. Ruzsky was a drinker, that much I knew. If I could get him befuddled . . .

  I ordered the station's liquor store opened to obtain two bottles of vodka: one of lemon flavour, the other of plum. They vanished into the deep pockets of my Guardee greatcoat. I walked then to the train in its siding and went at once to the wagon-lit I had reserved for myself, placed the bottles conspicuously upon the cover of the washbasin, and went to look for Ruzsky. He was not difficult to find: the man had installed himself in the attendant's alcove at the end of the special carriage in which the Imperial Family now rested. An empty bottle lay on the floor at his feet.

  'Got your orders?' he said thickly.

  'Moscow,' I said, and shrugged. Then I stretched. 'God, I'm tired!' I said, and looked at the bottle. 'Anything left in that?'

  'No,' he said.

  'I need a drink,' I told him. 'How about you? I have some back there.'

  He looked at me in a puzzled way, as though to say: why are you offering drink to me? But he was half-fuddled already, and he followed me without arguing.

  The plum was his; it makes me sick. The cleaner-tasting lemon seems not to affect me greatly. It never did, not even when, as a boy, I occasionally helped myself to my father's. Ruzsky sat on my bed with the bottle in one hand and the glass in another. We drank to Russia, to Marx, to the Revolution, all quick and in succession and he had such a head start on me that by then he wanted only to sleep. As consciousness slid away from him, I put my hands beneath his heels and lifted, lowering and turning him on to the bed
. He was already beginning to snore as I left and made my way forward, turning on electric lights as I passed. At last I reached the engine and gave my instructions to the driver. He and I descended together to the track to lean upon the points lever.

  A few minutes later, with lights shining the entire length of the train, we headed out of the railway station at Tyumen in the direction of Ekaterinburg.

  Does that puzzle you - you who read this history - this departure for Ekaterinburg? Do you say to yourself: but he was intent upon avoidance of that place! For I was.

  But what I did was to let a few miles pass and then bring the train to a halt. Then in the dark, well outside the town, I went again along the train, turning out every light. Now do you see? So it was a darkened train that began to reverse back towards Tyumen. We went at no great speed. I hoped by this means to present the train to any idle watchers at Tyumen station as a legitimate one. I held my breath as the train entered, then passed through the station. All was quiet as we slid gently on our way; and then Tyumen was falling back behind us and I remember letting a great sigh of relief come from my lips. What lay ahead was three hundred miles to Omsk and then the safe journey by the southern loop to Moscow; what lay behind was the dark menace of Ekaterinburg. So my thoughts ran.

  Tired as I was, at that moment I enjoyed a sense of triumph, a feeling that my mission was now on its way to a successful conclusion. Like a fool, I allowed myself the luxury of counting chickens, heard in my mind the thanks and congratulations of my sovereign. But then I did not know, nor could I have known, that already the house of cards I had built was beginning to tumble.

  So, still, and deceptively, all seemed to be well. As daylight came I washed myself, presented myself at the sitting-room car occupied by the Imperial Family, and was greeted almost warmly.

  Nicholas, having bade me a cheerful good-morning, now asked, 'Are we bound for Omsk?'

  I nodded. 'It is a long way round, to go this way to Moscow, but -'

  'So Moscow is our destination?'

  'Yes. I had orders in the night.'

  'Good, good.' Like me he was full of optimism; like mine, his was baseless. We were in a land of fantasy, all of us.

  I said softly, 'The document, sir. Have you had time to -'

  He was looking at me now in a new way, as though trying to read my face. I waited, and at length he said, his manner altogether grave, I have signed it.'

  'Good,' I said, smiling. 'May I -?'

  He was watching my face still. 'But it is not here.'

  I frowned. 'Mot here, sir? Then where -?'

  'Trbolsk." Nicholas said. 'I signed it before we left.'

  'But yesterday,' I reminded him, 'in the sleigh, you told me you still required more time.'

  He nodded. 'I'm sorry. I judged the deception necessary.'

  I felt anger rising in me and suppressed it. 'Why, sir? Why was it necessary? The document is an important factor in your release.'

  He put his hand on my arm. 'Commissar, I had no wish to answer your courtesy with discourtesy. But I must keep my family together. The letter is with my son. When he is brought to join us, you will have it.'

  I swore, but only to myself. His action was understandable enough and I had told him, with more or less certainty, both that the family would be reunited and that I would myself be returning to Tobolsk for Alexei and the Grand Duchesses. But it was, at the very least, a damned nuisance!

  'There is another matter, sir, upon which I must speak to you,' I told him. I moved to the far end of the room and after a moment he joined me. From my pocket. I took another piece of paper and handed it to him. He gave me an enquiring glance as he unfolded it, followed a moment later by a look of sharp surprise and puzzlement.

  'My cousin's signature, Commissar?'

  I said in English, which Nicholas spoke perfectly, 'It is a letter sent by your children's tutor, Gibbes, to a woman in England.'

  'So I see. But why did Cousin George sign it?'

  'To demonstrate its bonafides, sir.'

  'I do not understand.'

  I said, 'Sir, I am not a Soviet commissar.'

  'Then who? And why?' He was instantly perturbed. 'Where are we going?'

  'My name is Dikeston, sir. I am an officer in the Royal Navy, sent to Russia by your royal cousin upon a mission to seek your removal and that of your family to England. '

  'Thank God,' he said. 'I had been told I was not welcome in Britain.'

  'You must tell nobody,' I said. 'I have a part to play still.'

  I left him then and returned to the wagon-lit, where I had left Ruzsky. It was my intention to change my clothes. But I was no sooner in through the door than he gave me the first of several shocks.

  He was sitting on the bed, unshaven, a cigarette between his lips, his eyes were more than a little bloodshot, and he wore his habitual smirk. The shock, however, lay not in his appearance, with which I was all too familiar, but in his utterance. He gave an unpleasant laugh and said, 'You're a fraud, Yakovlev! And I know exactly what kind of fraud.'

  I threw him a haughty look which merely made him laugh more. 'You were told to look out for a man, were you not?' he said.

  'I was sent to bring the Romanovs,' I said. 'You know that.'

  He waved my answer away with an impatient gesture. 'Before you left London,' he said.

  I gaped at him and he laughed again. 'Gave you a surprise, did I?'

  'Who are you?'

  He gave me a mock salute. 'Henri Bronard. At your service - for the moment.'

  'Henri? You're French?'

  'Oui, m'sieu.'

  'Then what are you doing out here in the middle of Siberia?'

  'I serve various interests,' he said. 'For the moment I am to help you, when you need help. And you will.'

  I blinked at him. 'I don't understand. You are a member of the Urals Soviet.'

  He grinned, and it was more than the smirk I knew so well and detested; there was arrogance about him now, a clear pleasure in deceit. 'Not difficult,' he said. 'AH you need is to be more rabid than the rest.'

  'But you sent a man on my horse to Ekaterinburg!'

  'Somebody else said they should know. I insisted on sending your horse. They liked that.'

  I said angrily. 'You're a damned fool, Ruzsky or Bronard, or whatever your damned name is. You've alerted them unnecessarily.'

  'What's it matter - you're bound for Omsk, are you not? Has Nicholas signed?'

  Once again I gaped. Once again he gave that arrogant grin. 'The paper. Has he signed it?'

  'Who is it?' I demanded. 'Who's your master?'

  He laid his finger along his nose and said, 'Either nobody is my master - or it's Henri Bronard. Did Nicholas sign?'

  I declined to discuss the matter further and turned to leave. Behind me his voice said, 'Make sure of that signature, whatever else you do!'

  It was close to noon when the train slowed suddenly, shuddering as the brakes gripped. What could be amiss? I lowered a window to put my head out and saw there were men beside the track ahead, apparently talking to the driver. I jumped down and hurried forward until I reached them.

  There were eight or ten of them, railway workers. I called, 'What's wrong?' to the driver.

  'Warning not to proceed,' he answered. 'Ask them.' Which, of course, I immediately did.

  A hastily-erected barrier of tree-trunks and stones blocked the track. I stood looking at it for a moment, wondering, but it was clearly enough to prevent the train's moving forward and the men were amused; so I turned to look at the fellow who was in obvious command of the group, and flourished my paper at him. 'Who are you?' I demanded.

  His name I forget but it is of no consequence: though by God his actions were! The man was leader of the railway workers in Omsk, a poor, starved-looking intense fellow with gleaming, fervent eyes.

  He read the laissez-passer document slowly and carefully, then looked up at me with a slight frown. 'I apologize, Comrade. You cannot take the train through.'


  'Why not? As you see, my orders are from the Central Executive, from Comrade Sverdlov. Is this what happens when Moscow sends -'

  He interrupted me. He was shaking a little. 'We have to respect all our comrades. You bring us orders. We are used to orders. But from the Urals Soviet we have a request. It is not from great men in Moscow, but from our brother workers. Please, they ask us, do not accept the passage of this train. That is their request. Please - do you notice the word? Yet your paper threatens death. Such was always Moscow's way. Comrade Commissar, we live in a new world now, where worker heeds the words of worker.'

  I surveyed him coldly. 'So you halt the train-what now? We stand here in the snow?'

  'No, Comrade. You return along the track to Tyumen and then to Ekaterinburg.'

  'If I do that,' I protested, 'I shall be going directly against the orders of the Central Executive Committee. I shall be shot.'

  He said he cared, but he didn't. There was no moving him or his men. But they were without authority-merely a group of railway workers. Ahead in the city must be the members of the local Soviet: more moderate men than those of Ekaterinburg if the ones at Tobolsk had been typical.

  'You will have no objection if I go on alone into the city?'

  'None at all.'

  I uncoupled the locomotive and the Omsk men obligingly cleared their barrier to allow it through. On its footplate I reached the dreariness of Omsk, found three members of the local Soviet, including the secretary, and for two hours I argued and cajoled and waved my paper at them. They were adamant. There was no hostility, or not, at any rate, to me; but at the end I knew all about their feelings regarding the Imperial Family. The Omsk men did not care: whatever happened, Bloody Nicholas had brought upon himself. Their attitude was simply that, if Ekaterinburg's Soviet cared enough to make a formal request, the Omsk Soviet must comply with it; to do otherwise would be to strike at the very basis of solidarity.

  'But they're extremists,' I said. 'They'll kill them.'

  'They are workers like us,' I was told, 'and we are all free now to make decisions.'